


Legion

by zvezda



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Aliens, Eggs, End of the World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 08:48:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19903024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvezda/pseuds/zvezda
Summary: A short ficlet I wrote for someone that went nowhere. Not really been beta'd yet.





	Legion

The chamber wasn't silent; gentle swells of classical piano thrummed from the speakers in the walls. Chopin's Nocturne Opus 9, Number 1 in B flat rose and fell, moving in between the calcified cocoons that spread across the length of the massive, oval chamber. There was room for fifty or more, all equidistant from one another. Crowding in around them were quietly humming machines with tubes, electrical sensors, all monitoring each egg individually and sent to a massive closed server, where the data was organized and analyzed by the advanced A.I. designed for just such the purpose.

The walls dripped with moisture and the lights were at their lowest illumination. In the midst of this horror, settled in the center, seated in a leather swiveling chair, a man leaned back slowly. His hair was blonde and soft, styled back from a stern brow, set above two impossible, red and luminescent eyes, a sharp hawkish nose and an unforgiving, straight lipped mouth. Compared to his usual mien, Wesker seemed a bit more relaxed.

In the company of the quiet brood, he felt most meditative and peaceful. Quiet noises inside the misshapen eggs gurgled here and there. Small cries from within.

A new presence entered the bubble of serene horrors; footsteps echoing quietly in the oblong chamber. A shadow fell on Wesker as he sat, his back to the newcomer.

"Sir, I--"

"Shhh." The chair turned; one leather gloved finger moved in front of pursed lips like a watchful parent, guarding the quiet.

The other man's mouth dropped open slightly before closing, clenching teeth.

"Quietly," Wesker warned.

At a much softer, awkward volume, the messenger continued. "Dr. Fenwick wanted me to tell you that the new supplements are having positive results with the Gen-Two's. Although their metabolic rates are much higher. With all due respect, how are we going to, uh, keep them fed?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? We have a surplus of manpower in the building. Individuals without whom we can live without, who haven't been pulling their own weight. Tell Dr. Fenwick he will find the compiled list in the shared database."

He watched the man's face as it faltered, confidence leaving him like a harsh autumn wind cutting through a late summer's day. It brought relief and dread of the cold.

"Your place is not to question why," Dr. Wesker said matter-of-factly. "You have a problem with that?"

"Y-You..." The messenger trembled. The words stuck in his throat, hooked in like barbs but he choked them out. "You don't happen to know if.. um.... Melinda Welsh is on the list, do you..?"

Wesker's impeccable memory fleetingly offered a recollection of the list. And it was indeed true that Melinda Welsh had been considered strongly for 'retirement'. Her work ethic had been lacking, and with this man's response he could understand why. An office romance was a possible explanation for that. All the more bittersweet.

"If you have a problem with the way I conduct business here, you can take it up with Gen2." Wesker chuckled quietly.

The nocturne played on, juxtaposed to the quiet terror creeping down the messenger's back.

"I'm sure they would enjoy a quick appetizer."

"You can't just kill her! You can't do this! You can't just throw people away like that!" The messenger's voice rang, disrupting the music and booming from wall to wall. "People-- People have rights--"

The sound of breaking bone was ugly. The man's jaw was tottaly broken, twisted from the mandible at an ugly angle, tongue lolling over chipped broken bits of teeth.

Worse was the sudden screaming of pain. Wesker was in the chair one second, standing up the next, long, crushing fingers squeezing around the messenger's throat. The brittle little tube for air collapsed at once, and the screaming became a wet gurgle.

"Shhh. I told you to be quiet." Mildly exasperated, he turned, walking into the midst of the eggs. With all the noise, the energy in the room shifted.

The cocoons had become agitated. Less than ten had become to move and twitch more animatedly from within. Wesker's lips raised from his straight white teeth in anticipation.

"Now, should one of them happen to hatch... who do you suppose is going to feed them?" Wesker asked the struggling man, who could give no answer. His eyes were rolling back as his helpless hands slapped frantic at the hand holding him up by the neck.

From the northeastern corner a loud crack punctuatated the silenced, as loud as a gunshot. In that moment Wesker turned to face the source, and saw one of the ugly shapes tilting and swaying.

He dragged the messenger with him, then left him on the floor about five feet away beside one of the other eggs.

The frantic eyes of the man happened upon one of the eggs closest to him. It was translucent like cloudy, dirty glass - and a pair of bloodshot, yellowed eyes looked back from an underdeveloped, skinless face - just the bare bones of a skull coated with fleshy muscle and connective tissues stretched across.

The creature's mouth gaped open in a silent howl.

Wesker placed his hand on the side of the rocking cocoon.

"That's right. Come on."

The nocturne ended, and gave sway another Chopin piano piece: Op. 72 No. 1.

The creature's squealed fiercely, then a second crack split down the side of the cocoon. A gush of wet, warm white liquid spilled across the floor, wetting Wesker's boots.

"Fight. Struggle. Eat. Breed. Is there nothing as perfect? All across the Earth, creatures humans deem lesser than themselves have come to live at peace with their environment. Everything perfect in its place. Nothing wasted. No garbage. Nothing taken that isn't given back, karmic symmetry that can only occur in nature. Mankind is the only greedy creature on this planet. A lion will not hunt for more than it can feasibly devour in a night. But it is people, who will always take and take and take."

He sighed.

"Come on then. You're almost there."

The cocoon toppled, and various cords and tubes disconnected in the process, snapping away. It crashed open, sending shards scattering across the soaking wet floor. Pale, venous legs and arms uncurled, shaking and spasming. The proportions were close but still abnormal and strange. Everything seemed elongated and muscular, without an ounce of hair anywhere.

Wesker didn't even flinch; he crouched carefully beside the monstrosity. His hands gloved, he reached to gently wipe away at a waxy protective coating from the too-wide lips and mouth and the eyes. The nose was sharp and long, the nostrils flaring and gushing as the untried lungs pushed out liquid and attempted air for the first time.

"Shhh, shhh... there we are. Look at you. You did it all by yourself, didn't you? Such a good boy. Come here." He tugged the adult-sized newborn to him gently, resting its head on the crook of his elbow. "Deep breaths now. Calm."

Shockingly brilliant red eyes blinked rapidly, rolling blindly before fixating on Wesker's face. Mesmerized. They both froze in time, studying each other.

Wesker was in total admiration of his creation. As any proper parent would, he turned to supply the newborn with its first real meal. He hardly had to say or do anything. The coppery stink of blood and fresh urine filled the air. It came from the body laying just a few feet away. Wesker let the creature slip on all fours toward it, slowly rising to his feet and watching every step and every moment with bated breath.

It was a clumsy effort. Yet with such a voracious appetite, the Gen3 peeled open the carcass of the fresh kill in its grasp and lapped at the pooling blood. It found a rich artery along the thigh and tore it open, latching on to suck like a babe at the teat.

Wesker ventured a step closer, thrills of excitement tingling in his fingertips.

The monster snarled, hugging onto its prize and unwilling to share.

"No. You're right. That's all for you. Eat up, little one. Papa will make sure there will be plenty, plenty more."


End file.
